


Something In The Air (That Night)

by caramelle



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/M, Fluff and Humor, New Year's Eve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 18:38:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9136612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caramelle/pseuds/caramelle
Summary: "Saturday?" Clarke demands."Eight P.M.," Bellamy snaps."Done," they say at the exact same time, thrusting their hands out to exchange what is probably the most aggressive handshake ever performed in the history of man.Or, the one where Clarke and Bellamy accidentally end up making a date for New Year's Eve.





	

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY NEW YEAR EVERYBODY!
> 
> 2016's been a Wild One - Flo Rida ft. Sia, so here, just a little bit of Bellarke fluff to thank you for the year, and for every single thing i wrote on here/tumblr that you read, or kudos'd, or commented on, or liked, or reblogged. y'all really do motivate and encourage me SO MUCH, you've no idea the love i have for all of you.
> 
> (title from 'Fernando' by ABBA bc it's been stuck in my head the entire day asfdkajslk)

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It starts, as most things do for them, with an argument.

 

"Sergio's!"

 

"Luigi's!"

 

" _Sergio's_!"

 

Raven raises a brow, turning away from the sight of Clarke _literally_ shaking her fist at Bellamy, like she's the villain in an animated film. "What the fuck is _this_ fresh hell?"

 

Miller shrugs, eyes and hands focused resolutely on his Nintendo DS. "They're arguing over which place has the best pizza."

 

Raven groans, pressing her fingertips to her temple. "No, please. Not the food fight. _Anything_ but the food fight."

 

Because if there's one subject that _really_ gets Bellamy and Clarke raring to go, it's food.

 

Well. Jasper, too. But _unlike_ Bellamy and Clarke, Jasper doesn't discriminate when it comes to food. As long as it's edible, it's got a place in his huge, soft heart.

 

Bellamy shakes his head. "You're crazy if you think Sergio's has got _anything_ on Luigi's stuffed crust."

 

Clarke throws her hands into the air, exasperated. "And _you_ just like Luigi's because it's _named after a Mario Kart character_!"

 

"It's a _fucking iconic video game, all right?!_ "

 

"Actually," Monty pipes up.

 

To his credit, he barely even flinches when two heated stares whip round to fix on him.

 

"The highest rated pizzeria in town is actually Pietro's," he says serenely, turning his phone screen towards them.

 

He shrinks back a little when both of them take a single, menacing step towards him, raising his other hand in nervous surrender. "But, well, you know. That's just if you're into stuff like critics' reviews."

 

In eerie sync, Bellamy and Clarke whirl back around to glare at each other. (On the couch, Monty slumps in relief.)

 

"Saturday?" Clarke demands.

 

"Eight P.M.," Bellamy snaps.

 

" _Done,_ " they say at the exact same time, thrusting their hands out to exchange what is probably the most aggressive handshake ever performed in the history of man.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The next week, Raven catches them deep into yet another heated fight.

 

"Come _on_ , guys," she groans, dropping into an empty chair. "I thought we were way _past_ this pizza bullshit."

 

To her surprise, they both lift a brow in response.

 

"Who's talking about pizza, Reyes?" Bellamy asks, nose scrunched.

 

"This is about the best _sushi_ in town," Clarke says with a shrug. "Which, as Bellamy here is about to find out this weekend, is _obviously_ Kabuki."

 

Bellamy snorts, pushing her wagging finger out of his face. "How about you save the bragging for Saturday, princess. As in, the day your life is forever changed by Zento Sushi."

 

As they launch off into round two, Raven rolls her eyes, pushing off her seat and heading to the bar for some alcoholic sustenance.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

Two months in, no one can quite decide if the reason Bellamy and Clarke's food argument still hasn't ended is because they love food _that_ much, or just because they love fighting with each other _that much_.

 

"I'm dying," Miller whispers hoarsely when he manages to catch Raven by the elbow. "I'm fucking _dying_ over here."

 

" _You're_ dying?" she demands sardonically, yanking her arm out of his grasp. "Two days ago, I had to sit through a thirty-minute debate on breadsticks. _Breadsticks,_ Nathan!"

 

"I gotta admit, though," Monty says mildly, "that filet mignon episode was _particularly_ enlightening. I got a ton of great suggestions out of it. My parents were really impressed when they came to visit last week."

 

"Yeah, and Maya is completely obsessed with the gelato at Emori's now," Jasper adds, beaming ear to ear. "Which means I basically win Boyfriend of the Year, right?"

 

"No, don't," Miller hisses, snagging Jasper by the wrist when he starts towards the living room.

 

Raven nods, gripping Jasper's other wrist to help pull him back into the room. "Let's just all wait till they run out of steam."

 

And that's how Bellamy and Clarke find them in the small kitchen ten minutes later, huddled around a lone bag of nachos and passing a half-empty jar of salsa between them.

 

" _You_ don't get to ask," Raven sniffs primly, pointing a salsa-laden chip at Clarke before popping it into her mouth.

 

"Neither do _you_ ," Miller says darkly, sparing the barest glance at Bellamy, who merely raises a brow.

 

"Okay, but you guys do know that the nachos at Pike's are way better than that store-bought shit, right?"

 

Clarke throws him a disgusted glance. " _Please_. You say that like you've never _been_ to Niylah's."

 

To everyone's surprise, Monty springs up out of his seat, his chair scraping sharply against the floor.

 

"Just fucking _save it_ for Saturday already!" he all but shouts, before stalking from the room.

 

Bellamy's the first to recover, turning his confused frown on the rest of the group still sitting at the table. "What's _his_ problem?"

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

The weird thing is, it's not even like everyone doesn't know that Bellamy and Clarke hang out _anyway_.

 

In fact, they're easily the two people who see each other the most outside of the group — aside from Jasper and Monty, of course. (But then again, living together doesn't exactly _count_ , as Miller insists.)

 

This whole weekly foodie date thing would actually be kind of _cute_.

 

If it wasn't so fucking _strange_.

 

It's common enough knowledge that as separate individuals, Bellamy and Clarke are each pretty stubborn. But _together_? Those fuckers can't be _tamed_.

 

They go on their little foodie field trips every single Saturday, without fail. They don't give a flying fuck if the sun is out, or if thunder and lighting are wreaking havoc in the sky and ripping up the very fabric of space and time. They've even borrowed Raven's car to drive _all the way out of town_ , on _more than one occasion_.

 

In fact, in all three months since they've started, they haven't ever _once_ broken their Saturday food fights for _anything_. Not even _sex_.

 

(Or, more accurately, the _promise_ of sex.)

 

"Let me get this straight," Raven says slowly, fingers steepled in front of her. "You just postponed on Niylah — for the _third time_ — because the only day she just _happens_ to be available this week is Saturday?"

 

Clarke shrugs, scraping cheese and salsa onto a nacho chip with a second nacho. "Saturdays are no good for me. You know that."

 

Raven tilts her head, eyes narrowed in a squint. " _Are_ they?" she asks, her voice pitched a lot higher than usual. "Are they _really_?"

 

Clarke glances at her, one brow raised. "What's _that_ tone about?"

 

Raven shrugs, deliberately exaggerating the movement so it comes off a lot more jerky than usual. "Just _saying_. I mean, Niylah first asked you out, what, over two _weeks_ ago?"

 

"So?" Clarke asks around a mouthful of nacho.

 

" _So_ ," Raven echoes meaningfully, leaning forward over the table. " _Kind_ of weird that it's taking you _this_ long to get your shit together, don't you think?"

 

Clarke takes a generous swig of beer to wash the nacho down before levelling the brunette with an unamused look. "Maybe you should just cut the bullshit and spit it out? You know — before I give you a standing ovation for all this dancing you're doing around the subject. Whatever that is."

 

Raven drops her hands, palms landing flat on the table with a dull smack. "Come _on_ , Clarke. Do you _really_ not see what this looks like?"

 

"What _what_ looks like?!"

 

"You're turning down _dates_ ," Raven says, tone sharp. "Actual _romantic prospects_. Are you _seriously_ going to sit there and tell me that you don't know _why_?"

 

"Because I'm a stubborn asshole," Clarke says calmly, loading up another nacho with more salsa and cheese. "And so is Bellamy. Which means we're both taking this fight to the grave."

 

"Hopeless," Raven says, shaking her head at some invisible spectator. "Completely, utterly hopeless."

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

It should probably be clarified that, contrary to popular belief, Bellamy and Clarke don't spend the _entirety_ of their Saturdays just _fighting_.

 

Bellamy's actually a pretty gracious loser. Grudging, but gracious enough to admit when he genuinely does think her selection surpasses his in terms of quality and taste.

 

She can't quite say she's anywhere _near_ as acquiescent. Not out loud, at least. Except when it comes to pie. She simply can't get anywhere _near_ him when it comes to pie. Pecan, pumpkin, apple, beef and cheese, chicken and mushroom — the man _knows_ his pie. It's just as frustrating as it is impressive.

 

Even so, she's pretty surprised to realise how much she's started looking forward to their Saturday food fights. Not just for the thrill of a good _argument_ on her favourite subject, but also just— well— _Bellamy_.

 

Why _wouldn't_ she enjoy their time together? He's smart and funny; a particular blend of spontaneous and grounded that she's always privately found comfortable. Doesn't exactly _hurt_ to look at him for extended periods of time either.

 

He's a _good fucking conversationalist_ , all right? Always has been. _She_ can't help that.

 

Four months in, she can't even remember the last time they'd erupted into a legitimate _fight_. Like, the kind that features real _anger_.

 

Whatever. She's allowed to enjoy herself on her weekly food hunts with her _friend_.

 

... Isn't she?

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

"If this is a 'please come bail us out' call, I can't do it," Clarke says the second her phone touches her ear. "Try Bellamy."

 

"Well, consider this your lucky day, because it just so happens that no one's in jail," Monty says, smug satisfaction dripping from his tone. He pauses. "Or is it… _my_ lucky day?"

 

She smiles despite herself, dropping her pencil onto her sketchpad. "What's up, Monty?"

 

"We have a location problem," he reports briskly. "Raven's roommates already called dibs on her place, and since you guys _still_ refuse to step into _our_ apartment—"

 

"And will _continue_ to do so," Clarke adds warningly. "For the rest of our natural-born lives."

 

"Uh _huh_ ," Monty says, in a voice that makes it clear that he's rolling his eyes. "So, since _that's_ a thing, it means we'll probably have to move everything to your place."

 

Clarke starts to nod automatically, and then stops. "Wait. What exactly is this for, again?"

 

Monty huffs impatiently. "Seriously, Clarke? It's for this Saturday! I've sent out, like, three group texts about this in the last forty-eight hours."

 

She's shaking her head before he's even finished speaking. "Oh, no. No can do."

 

"What? _Why_?"

 

She clicks her tongue chidingly. "Saturdays are _never_ free, Monty. You know that."

 

There's a longer pause on Monty's end that makes her brows furrow warily.

 

She scrunches her nose, pulling the phone from her ear to check that she hasn't accidentally hung up on him. "Hello?"

 

"Oh," Monty's voice responds. There's a peculiar note to it, like there's some sort of strain in his throat. "Uh. Not even _this_ Saturday?"

 

She raises a brow to herself. "Not for _anything_ , Monty. Are you okay? You sound—"

 

"I'm fine," he squawks, causing her other brow to shoot up as well. "Just— yep, fine. Okay, so, just to be clear: that's a no for you and Bellamy. For our thing on Saturday. This Saturday."

 

"Yes," she says slowly. "Are you sure—"

 

"Okay, thanks, Clarke!" Monty says, the words practically rushing out of his mouth. "Good talk! Bye!"

 

She sits there in stunned silence, listening to the sound of the dial tone.

 

"Well," she mutters, pulling the phone away from her ear, "still better than a bail-out call, in any case."

 

 

 

"Hey," she says later that night, when they're at the bar getting round two on Raven and Miller's behalf, "we're still on for Saturday, right?"

 

To her surprise, Bellamy stiffens, his broad shoulders pulling up tight.

 

"Uh," he says, before turning to look at her — well, to look at her _shirt collar_. "I don't know. Are we?"

 

She huffs a cautious laugh, nudging an elbow into his. "Um, _yeah_. Why wouldn't we be?"

 

He clears his throat, still avoiding her gaze. "Don't you, uh— wouldn't you want to hang with the others?"

 

She scoffs good-naturedly. "What? _No_ , not on _Saturday_." She glances up at him, brows drawing together in confusion. "Why, do _you_?"

 

For some reason, he seems to be considering her flippant question _especially_ carefully. "No."

 

She blows out a breath, grinning wide. "Okay, then, that's settled!" She cocks her head at his arrested expression, waggling her brows provocatively. "What's wrong, Blake? _Scared_?"

 

The playful jab doesn't spark him into motion the way she's hoping. Instead of slipping back into their usual combative repartee, he merely studies her — his gaze _actually_ on her face this time.

 

"Not on your life, Griffin," he finally says, with one last inscrutable look before turning to receive their order from the bartender.

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

"I can't believe you're doing it," Raven says when Clarke picks up, not even bothering with a 'hello'. "You're doing it. You're _actually_ fuckin' _doing_ it."

 

"Good afternoon to you, too, Raven," Clarke says patiently, leaning back in her chair. "And to what do I owe this pleasure?"

 

"Don't give me this _bullshit_ ," Raven snaps, sounding more excited than pissed off. "You're actually making a _move_!"

 

Clarke frowns, now thoroughly lost. "I— what?"

 

Raven groans impatiently. "Quit playing me, woman! Monty _told_ me all about you and Blake going off on your little date on Saturday."

 

"It's not a date," Clarke says automatically, swivelling idly towards the left in her chair. "Anyway, how is that _news_? Bellamy and I always hang out on Saturdays."

 

Through the phone, Clarke picks up a sound that sounds like a half tsk, half growl, and all frustration.

 

"Newsflash, Clarke," Raven announces. "Two _platonic_ friends, who have a purely _platonic_ relationship, don't arrange to hang out _platonically_ for a _platonic_ meal, undisturbed by their _other_ platonic friends, just the _two_ of them, _platonically_ together on their own, _on New Year's Eve_."

 

In the silence that follows, Clarke vaguely realises how hyper aware she is of the faint crackle of the phone connection.

 

She clears her throat carefully. And then she coughs, and clears it again. Just to be… well. Clear.

 

"Sorry," she says slowly. She can feel her teeth — actually _feel_ them. Has she always been able to do that? "Uh. On... what?"

 

Raven is quiet for a long moment.

 

"Clarke," she says, with an equally even, measured pace. "You do know that this Saturday is, in fact, New Year's Eve, right? You are, indeed, fully aware of this?

 

"Um," Clarke says. It's pretty much all she can manage right now, with the way her throat feels like it's constricting on itself.

 

" _Clarke_ ," Raven repeats, somehow turning one syllable into three.

 

Clarke briefly considers the merits of attempting to respond with an exaggerated pronouncement of Raven's name. She decides that there are none.

 

"Well," she says instead, sounding a lot steadier than she actually _feels_ , "I know _now_."

 

Raven sighs, the rush of air rustling through the phone. "Right. Well, what are you gonna do?"

 

"I— _I_ don't know," Clarke says, a little defensively. She springs up in her chair, pulling her body forward to sit ramrod straight. "Wait, why the fuck is this on _me_? I'm not hanging out with _myself_!"

 

"Yes," Raven says, in that deliberately patient way that makes it crystal clear that she's got little to no patience left. "But you _are_ the one who went and _made damn sure_ that you and Bellamy would be _alone_ on New Year's Eve. Alone, _together_."

 

Clarke blinks, the memory of last night at the bar flashing up in her brain. Bellamy's uncharacteristic nervousness. His inability to look her directly in the eye. The abruptness with which he'd slipped into a sombre, serious mood. The _intensity_ of his gaze when it finally met with hers.

 

_'Don't you, uh— wouldn't you want to hang with the others?'_

 

"Oh, shit," Clarke says out loud, heat blooming under her skin. "Oh… _fuck_."

 

"Good _God_ ," Raven says, and Clarke can just picture the brunette shaking her head. "Okay, well, all I have left to say on _this_ train wreck of a situation is that you damn well deserve this. You both do."

 

She frowns, confused. "What?"

 

"Text me when you decide what to do," Raven orders, before hanging up.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

The good news is, she has two days before New Year's Eve.

 

The bad news is, she has _two fucking days_ before New Year's Eve.

 

It's too late to cancel. What could she possibly come up with that would work as a solid excuse for a), the weekend, b), the nighttime, and, c), _New Year's Eve_?

 

It'll be awkward if she suggests joining the rest of the group now. She wouldn't know what to _do_ with herself, how to hang out with everyone else without constantly checking Bellamy's face to see if he knows why she's done it.

 

Heck, _she_ wouldn't even know why.

 

Also, the plain and simple truth is that… she doesn't _want_ to cancel.

 

She's always been _attracted_ to him, she knows that. It's why they're always fighting all the time. She can't help but want to be in the same space as him, even if it's just to catch him with a Wrong Opinion. (And, boy, does he have a _lot_ of those.)

 

She's always _respected_ him too, sure. It's grudging, but, whatever. After all he's done for his mother and his sister, after everything she's seen him do for their friends, her included — how could she not?

 

But, the thing is, after months and months of Saturdays with him, she's suddenly realising that she might actually genuinely _like_ him, too.

 

Not just in the _'hey, let's hang out'_ way, either.

 

It's definitely the kind of like that belongs firmly to the _'hey, I want to hang out with you all of the time and also maybe make out with you for a large percentage of that time'_ variety.

 

She _wants_ to be with Bellamy for New Year's Eve. She wants to spend that time with him, _just_ him. She wants to spend the next day with him too — and the next day, and the next, and every day after that.

 

She _wants_ this.

 

She wants _Bellamy_.

 

And... fuck it all, she just might finally be ready to admit it to them both.

 

 

 

* * *

 

  

 

"You're not taking me to that Mexican place on Sixth, are you?" Bellamy asks, peering suspiciously through the windshield.

 

Clarke laughs, some of her nerves escaping along with the sound.

 

"Nah, I'm saving that particular punishment for a _special_ occasion," she teases, flicking her signal on to change lanes. "Maybe the next time you try to lecture me on how all craft beer is a huge scam."

 

"It _is_ a huge scam," Bellamy insists calmly, settling back into the passenger seat. "I told you, the whole point of IPAs is—"

 

"Yeah, all right, got it," she says authoritatively, reaching over him to pull open the glove compartment. "Here, put this on."

 

Bellamy stares at the sleeping mask she tosses into his lap. "When you said this was going to be the dinner of my dreams, I was kind of going with a _figurative_ interpretation."

 

She rolls her eyes, returning her outstretched hand to the wheel. "Okay, I never _actually_ said 'dinner of your _dreams_ '. Put the damn blindfold on."

 

"No, but you _implied_ it," Bellamy says cheekily, but he slips the mask over his head anyway, tugging it into place over his eyes. "If I end up dead in a ditch somewhere, my ghost is gonna be haunting you for the rest of your life."

 

She _tries_ not to, but ends up sniggering anyway.

 

 

 

"At this point," Bellamy informs her conversationally as she leads him down the corridor, "my list of suspicions has grown to include an underground gambling den, and an underground fight club."

 

"For the last time," Clarke tells him, pulling him to a stop when they arrive at their destination, "we're _not_ underground. Stop starting all your guesses with that."

 

He shrugs idly, waiting patiently as she gets the door open. "Well, since you haven't let me have any _real_ clues," he says, allowing himself to be tugged over the threshold. He pauses, head tilted as his nose scrunches. " _Mm_. What's that smell?"

 

"It's the scent of patriarchal repression," Clarke informs him dryly, closing the door before taking his arm again to pull him further in. "I'm kidding, by the way. This isn't a fight club. I promise."

 

"It's _some_ kind of clandestine gathering," Bellamy says with certainty. "That elevator definitely smelled a lot like the one in your building. Wait, is this a _food fight_ club?"

 

He sounds a lot more incredulous than cynical, and it makes her laugh.

 

"Would you stop _guessing_ already?" she says, bringing them to a stop. She drops her hand and steps back a safe distance from him, throwing one last quick glance around to make sure everything is as perfect as can be. Turning back to face Bellamy, she's suddenly struck motionless by how _endearing_ he looks, eyes covered as he just stands there, patiently waiting for her next instruction. It's a stark contrast to how he usually looks, all intense and focused, with that unmissable air of alpha maleness.

 

A rush of heat sweeps up her body, causing her neck and face to flush with warmth.

 

 _Later, nerves,_ she commands herself, holding off the urge to fidget as best as she can.

 

"Okay," she says, channelling all of her energy into making her voice as steady as can be. " _Now_ you can look."

 

She watches as he lifts up the blindfold, squinting and blinking as his eyes adjust to the dim lighting. He slips the mask off his head gently, the straps rustling his dark curls into even messier disarray.

 

"Oh," he breathes lowly. " _Wow_."

 

"Do you—" she starts, before clearing her throat. "Is this all right?"

 

Bellamy doesn't answer, his gaze travelling slowly over the sight before him — they're standing in Clarke's living room, the dining table laid out with two sets of sparkling clean dinnerware, accented with pastel-hued nosegays in mason jars, and several little tealights and larger candles artfully spaced out in lieu of ceiling lights and lamps.

 

"The steak is from Mecha," she says, when she feels like the silence growing a little _too_ thick. "The bruschetta is from The Ark — _before_ you start bragging, it's not like I was head over heels _in love_ with the one at Polis anyway, all right?" She shifts her weight from one foot to the other, teeth bared in a nervous smile. "I've got a couple pints of Emori's gelato sitting in the freezer, that's for dessert. The nachos, though, are from Pike's." She shrugs, grinning in a half-assed attempt at pretending she's relaxed. "I'll let that one go for now.  _Just_ because it's New Year's Eve."

 

He stares at her. Half of his face is hidden in shadow; the other half is bathed in warm candlelight, the expression on it unfamiliar, unreadable.

 

She brushes at a stray lock of blonde that's somehow found its way over her eyes, chuckling hesitantly. "Okay, fine. Pike's nachos aren't _that_ bad."

 

Bellamy clears his throat, his gaze roving over the table once more before returning to her. "Correct me if I'm wrong," he says slowly, his tone markedly rougher than before. "But all of— uh, _this_ —" he waves a hand over the scene, "—yeah, this all looks— well, a little romantic. _Ish_."

 

Clarke takes a breath, steeling herself before looking at him. "Damn. I was really aiming for something closer to  _a lot_ romantic." She forces herself to hold his gaze. "No ish."

 

She watches his eyes widen, the chocolate brown of his irises deepening ever so slightly.

 

She's not quite sure which of them it is that makes the first move. Hazily, she thinks that it might be her foot that steps forward first. But, barely a second later, it's his hands curving around her face to tilt her up towards his when their lips finally meet.

 

"This is a date, right?" Bellamy demands when they pull apart a minute later, warm breaths fanning over each other's skin. "This is an actual, non-friendly, full-on romantic _date_."

 

She laughs helplessly, her fingers curling tightly into his thick, dark curls.

 

"Trust me, Bellamy," she assures him with a satisfied smile. "There is _nothing_ platonic about tonight."

 

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

 

**8.59pm:**

**HOW'D IT GO**

 

**9.43pm:**

**hellooooo**

 

**10.16pm:**

**if u're ignoring me i can oNLY**

**ASSUME IT'S GOING WELL**

 

**10.31pm:**

**ok srsly clarke all jokes aside r u ok**

 

**10.43pm:**

**yes Raven, everything's good.**

**actually, everything is GREAT**

 

**10.45pm:**

**AYYYYY THAT'S MY GIRL**

 

**10.45pm:**

**get it babe!!!!!!!**

 

**11.09pm:**

**btw r u guys coming over for countdown?**

 

**11.15pm:**

**Monty n Jasper r asking if y'all r coming**

 

**11.19pm:**

**we're chillin the champagneeee**

 

**11.27pm:**

**????????**

 

**11.28pm:**

**_[1 image attached]_ **

 

**11.28pm:**

**GDI**

 

**11.28pm:**

**YOU COULDVE JUST SAID NO**

 

**11.29pm:**

**DIDNT HAVE TO SCAR MY**

**RETINAS LIKE THAT JFC**

 

**11.29pm:**

**FUCK YOU BOTH THIS IS NOT HOW**

**I WANTED TO SPEND MY LAST**

**MOMENTS OF THE YEAR FUCKkKKKSDAKJ**

 

**11.31pm:**

**Happy new year to you too, Reyes**

  


**Author's Note:**

> thank you once again for reading my Bellarke nonsense
> 
> double thanks if you liked it enough to leave a kudos <3  
> triple thanks if you decided to leave a comment <33333
> 
> catch me freaking out about Life In General over [on tumblr](http://caramelkru.tumblr.com) lmao
> 
> have a happy new year, and i'll see you in 2017!


End file.
